


Stone Cold

by Fancy Lads Snacks (Filthy_Bunny), syrenpan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Collaboration, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Love/Hate, Random Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filthy_Bunny/pseuds/Fancy%20Lads%20Snacks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrenpan/pseuds/syrenpan
Summary: Post-Railroad ending. MacCready has been captured and imprisoned by the Brotherhood thanks to his connection to their enemy. The scribe assigned to deal with his case really has it in for him, and boy does MacCready hate her. This is a collaboration fic from Dumperstercon 2016. The idea was to write a hate-to-love story with a mystery pairing. The first writer drew two names which established the pairing, and started to write the hate part before handing it over to the unsuspecting co-author to turn it into love/sexytiems. It was tons of fun and we got to play with different characters and try out some great pairings we may never have considered otherwise. You can read Tess1978 and syrenpan's joint fic 'The Eyes of My Enemy' here, and Tess and Fancy Lads Snacks' collab will follow at some point soon (i.e. when Fancy gets her sorry ass in gear and finishes it). Enjoy! :)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tess1978](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess1978/gifts).



“Up.”

MacCready grumbled in response. He had faked unconsciousness when he’d heard the unmistakeable clunk of power armour footsteps approaching and the cell door being dragged open, but once the guard spoke he thought better of it. He didn’t need to be manhandled any more than he had been on the day of his arrest. The bruises from that day were still making themselves known in every point of contact between his body and the metal slab that served as a bunk.

He turned over with a groan. He’d had better nights’ sleep in roadside ditches. The knight loomed over him in that damned tin can armour, laser rifle in hand. Talk about overkill.

“All right, calm down,” MacCready told him as he sat up.

The concrete floor was cold and rough under his bare feet. They’d taken everything except the shirt on his back and the pants on his ass. His gun went without saying. He wasn’t quite so sure what harm he was expected to do to anyone with his hat, shoes or belt, but his jailers had taken them nonetheless.

He got to his feet and obediently turned to face the wall when prompted, hands going behind his back.

“Easy there, you know I’m ticklish,” he said as the soldier wrestled his wrists into handcuffs. “So where we headed today? You taking me somewhere nice for breakfast?”

The knight spun him back around and shoved him towards the door. “Shut the fuck up, MacCready.”

MacCready obliged. He kept quiet as he was marched out of the room, along a gloomy hallway and up a flight of stairs. The building was some old army base or police station; MacCready couldn’t say where because they’d shoved a bag over his head on the Vertibird ride over. The Brotherhood had a flair for the dramatic. He knew there were other prisoners here because he’d heard them yelling and pleading night and day. By this point he was so tired he just wanted them all to shut the hell up. The place made Goodneighbor seem like a retirement home by comparison.

He shivered as they headed up more stairs and along a few more hallways until the knight halted him outside a set of double doors. Tin Can rapped one giant fist on the door, _thunk thunk thunk._

A female voice called from within. “Enter.”

He was pushed into a large room with office furniture piled up along the walls on either side. Tall windows let in daylight, but the lowered blinds kept MacCready from estimating where in the Commonwealth they were. To his right, a skinny man sat behind a small table, fingers poised over a typewriter. Ahead of him, in front of the windows, was a much larger desk, and behind it sat a woman.

Maybe he was just starved of visual stimulation after a few days in his cell, but she was lovely.

She was young, probably not much older than Mac himself, but she carried an air of importance in her slight frame. She wore a smart red and black uniform, and her dark hair was scraped back from an oval face with symmetrical features and large, dark eyes. Her skin was the same warm, rich brown as the Third Rail’s top shelf bourbon.

Her eyes never left the stack of papers in front of her. “Take a seat,” she said.

Tin Can shoved MacCready into the rickety chair facing the desk.

“Please state your full name for the record,” the woman told him.

“Why?” MacCready drawled. “Can’t you read?”

The knight smacked him on the chest, driving the breath out of Mac’s lungs. At least he’d finally gotten the woman’s full attention. A perfectly neat little frown line appeared between her perfectly neat eyebrows as she peered across her desk at him.

“Robert Joseph MacCready,” he scraped out between coughs. The scribe to his right tapped away at the typewriter. “What’s yours?”

The woman glanced up at the knight and nodded her head almost imperceptibly. He stepped back from MacCready’s chair.

“I’m Senior Justice Scribe Selma Cross,” she said. “I’m here to process the prisoners at this facility so that decisions can be made regarding sentencing.”

“Cross,” MacCready echoed. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“I wouldn’t know. My mother is Sentinel Cross, who remained in command of the Citadel when Elder Maxson brought his forces to the Commonwealth.”

“The Citadel, huh? Been a while since I was in that neck of the woods.”

“You’re from the Capital Wasteland?”

MacCready shrugged. “Once upon a time.”

“What brought you to the Commonwealth?”

He considered his answer for a moment. “Opportunity.”

One of those neat eyebrows rose into an arch. “The kind of opportunity offered by Nathan Kent?”

Mac frowned. “Who?”

She sighed. “Please don’t waste my time, Mr MacCready. We know you were an associate of his. I have numerous accounts from witnesses, including surviving Brotherhood personnel, stating that you travelled with him.”

“Ohhh,” he replied, as though the realisation had only just dawned. “You’re talking about that Nate guy. Came out of some vault? Yeah, I knew him. Parted ways a while back, though. Is he the reason I’m in trouble here?”

Cross looked thoroughly unconvinced. Her tone was clipped when she replied.

“Kent is the reason we’re _all_ in trouble here. He was responsible for the destruction of Boston airport and the deaths of most of the men, women and children stationed there. But I’m sure you already know that. What I want to know is how much help you gave him.”

“Woah,” MacCready protested. “You have this all wrong. I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t know _shoot_ about what that crazy SOB had planned. All he told me was he was looking for his son. I was back in Goodneighbor when the Prydwen went down. You want to talk about witnesses, go ask around there. They’ll tell you.”

“But you don’t deny that you are a mercenary?” Cross’ gaze dipped to the paperwork in front of her again. “Formerly a member of the group known as the Gunners; later freelance. How much did Kent pay you, Mr MacCready?”

“It wasn’t like that with him. He—All right, yeah, he hired me at the start, but only as an extra gun while he was heading into bad territory. Couple hundred caps to get him down to Quincy and back. After that I helped him out again because he swore he’d do me a favour in return. That turned out to be a pile of brahmin… Well, let’s just say he shafted me as good as the rest of you.”

“What was the favour?”

Mac shifted in his chair. His wrists ached where they were cuffed behind him. “He promised to help me get some medicine,” he said at last. He didn’t like to tell anyone about Duncan. “We found it, too. But then that sack of garbage stabbed me in the back. Took it while I was sleeping. Probably sold it to the highest bidder.” He grimaced at the memory. “I never saw him again after that.”

Cross tilted her head a little. “Who was the medicine for?”

He stared back at her before shrugging one shoulder. “Nobody,” he said. “It was just worth a lot of money.”

“I see. Do you have a family, Mr MacCready?”

“Nope.”

“No wife? Children?”

“It’s just little old me.”

Cross nodded. She picked up a sheet of paper and ran her eyes over it. “So you’re no relation to a Duncan MacCready? Six years old?”

Mac’s gut went cold. For a long, terrible moment he and Senior Justice Scribe Selma Cross stared at each other.

“Fuck you,” he said at last. Cross’ features didn’t even flicker. Icy bitch. Mac heard the knight step towards him again, but Cross glanced up and shook her head once. “What have you done with him?” MacCready demanded, voice rough with anger.

“Your son is perfectly safe,” Cross replied.

“Safe, my ass. My boy is sick. Really sick.” The cuffs rattled against his back as he shook. “He’s waiting for me to bring him help. If I don’t find him medicine, he’ll die. He’s the only reason I’m even here.”

“Are you saying you’d do anything for him?”

“Yes.”

“Including help Nathan Kent?”

“No, I’m—God damn it, you’re twisting my words. Nate screwed over me _and_ my kid. I’d never help him after that.” He swallowed down the urge to stand up and kick her desk over, sending Cross and her neat stacks of paper flying. “What do you want from me?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions,” she replied smoothly. “We want Kent, dead or alive. Preferably the latter. He must be brought to justice for his actions. If you help us locate him, I will consider reducing your sentence and allowing you to see your son. If your help leads to the arrest of other Railroad agents, you will be rewarded accordingly. You have nothing to lose, Mr MacCready, and everything to gain.”

MacCready watched her through narrowed eyes. The truth was, he didn’t have a freaking clue where Nate or his Railroad cronies had hidden themselves away, but he couldn’t tell Cross that. He would have to come up with something to buy time for himself and Duncan.

“What exactly _is_ my sentence?” he asked.

Cross got to her feet and walked around until she stood in front of his chair. MacCready wasn’t sure if she was trying to appear more or less intimidating.

“I won’t lie to you,” she said as she leaned back against the front edge of her desk. “As a known associate of Kent’s, Brotherhood law permits me to recommend the harshest punishment available.”

“I get the feeling you’re not talking about a stern telling off, are ya?”

Her cool gaze didn’t flicker. “Execution, Mr MacCready.”

*

Three weeks later, a stone-faced Knight in his mid-thirties confiscated MacCready’s weapons at the downstairs entrance to the temporary BOS headquarters in the Commonwealth.

With an exasperated sigh, Mac dropped his .308 sniper rifle, spare 10mm, ammo belts and combat knife on the table.

“All of it,” the Knight demanded.

Mac rolled his eyes and emptied his pockets. Shells, bullets and a burned out FC joined the arsenal.

“All of it,” the guard repeated, sounding almost bored.

“Whaddya mean? That’s it!”

“All. Of. It.”

“...Fine.”

Mac bent over, cursing under his breath, and pulled a vicious-looking serrated blade from his boot. He rammed it into the wooden surface where it stuck like a very short sword of legend. The guard didn’t even blink.

The sniper was about to leave when the he heard the Knight click his tongue.

“What?” Mac snarled as he slowly turned back to the officer.

“Your coat.”

“You just made me empty out my pockets!”

“Coat!”

“What was the point, then?”

“The coat, civilian.”

“Oh, don’t do that! It reminds me of the tin can.”

“What?”

“Forget it. Here!” Mac grumbled as he shrugged out of his duster and tossed it on the pile.

“We’re not done, aren’t we? What’s next, my fucking pants? Wanna cop a feel, pat me down?”

MacCready no longer kept his potty mouth in check. In fact, he remembered the exact moment when he had given up. It was the second he had realised Kent had played him for a fool and terminated all hope of ever curing his son. A heartfelt ‘ _fuck’_ had escaped him then and once you’ve stepped over the line, well, that was it.

He had just added it to the long list of things he had to apologise to Duncan for once he saw him again.  

“You’re not my type,” the Knight replied smoothly before he motioned to Mac’s hat and then indicated the table.

“Uh, seriously?”

The guard nodded very slowly, and MacCready surrendered in the face of stoicism. He slammed his cap on top of his duster.

The Knight was still giving him the stink-eye but seemed to be satisfied at last and waved him through.

“If there is so much as a scratch or a loose thread, I’ll hold you personally responsible, Knight…”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“Strange name, but okay, Knight get-the-fuck-out-of-here!”

“Don’t make me shoot you, MacCready!” the guard growled, hand twitching to the gun on his hip as Mac backed away with his hands raised.

“Asshole,” the sniper muttered under this breath as he walked up the stairs. As soon as he was out of the guard’s line of sight, his hand reached down under the collar of his plaid shirt, fingers wrapping reassuringly around the leather-bound knife handle protruding from the neck sheath.

“Rule number one, Cross, never send a jackboot to do a cutthroat’s job,” Mac smirked to himself before he let the blade go. He wasn’t certain what advantage the weapon would give him but he felt better knowing it was there.

The old wood creaked under his dusty boots until he stood in front of the large double doors again. Only this time he had no metal encased chaperone and he was armed, literally and figuratively. It would have to do.

“Duncan, think of Duncan,” MacCready muttered his mantra, nervously combing his hand through his hair. He raised his fist and hesitated long enough to swallow around the lump in his throat before he rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Come in,” Cross called.

It was almost as if she hadn’t moved at all. Hair, face, clothes, shoes - everything was the same down to her irritatingly perfect eyebrows. She was perusing the papers on her desk.

As the silence stretched, Cross looked up. Her eyes were a beautiful, warm shade of amber, and completely out of place in the face of someone so cold.

“Well?” she asked, steepling her fingers over her paperwork.  

“What? It’s been three weeks! No, hello Mac, how’ve you been?”

Cross mouth twisted into a smirk. He didn’t know why she indulged him but she replied, “How have you been, Bobby?”

“Woah, woah, easy. I thought we had agreed to take things slow. Bobby? That’s getting a bit too personal, dontcha think?”

The humor vanished instantly, like watching a vault door slam shut in your face. Shit!

“I’m just kidding. Sorry, it’s difficult to maintain a sense of humour when you’ve an invisible rope tied around your neck, y’know? But, yeah. You can call me whatever you want, ‘cause I bring good news.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You found Kent?.”

MacCready shook his head and grinned. “No, I found the whole freaking Railroad.”

Cross got out of her seat and stepped around her desk. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“And Kent is with them?”

“Uh-hn!”

“Where?” Cross asked, her chest heaving, betraying her otherwise perfectly composed demeanour. Mac tried not to notice how her firm breasts strained the material of her uniform with each breath. He couldn’t afford to get distracted.

“Ahhh. Now, here is the thing,” MacCready started, sauntering closer. Cross looked as if she was barely 5’2” and unarmed and as far as he could tell the closest guard, Knight Get-the-fuck-out-of-here, was at the bottom of a long flight of stairs.

“You’re in no position to bargain, Mr MacCready.” Cross was probably the only person on the planet who had mastered the art of looking down at people while tilting her head up. She had an uncanny ability to make Mac feel like an unworthy worm. Good thing being a worm had never bothered him.

“Mr. MacCready? What happened to Bobby?” Mac asked, feigning disappointment. He stood close enough to notice the tiny scar on her lush lower lip.

“Where is Kent?”

“Where is my son?”

Cross straightened up, her mouth forming a grim line before she replied. “Like I said, if the information you’re bringing me proves to be useful in the apprehension of Kent and his associates, I’ll personally arrange for a meeting, until then you’ll have to take my word for it that Duncan is perfectly safe.”

Mac snarled, “He is sick, for fuck’s sake!”

“Yes,” Cross replied patiently. “I’m aware. However, your son’s condition has no impact on our arrangement.”

Mac’s face twisted into a grimace, “Is he even alive?”

She seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “Of course he is.” Cross huffed. “You must think me a cruel monster to lie to a desperate man about the fate of his son.”

“Well, you’re not above using him to make me do your bidding, that’s for sure!”

She shrugged. “We’re at war, Mr MacCready. And your neck is in the noose. I dare say your child’s fate is irrelevant to a dead man. Please do yourself a favour and tell me everything you know.”

Mac shook his head. “No, not until I know for sure he is still alive.”

Cross’ eyes narrowed. “My patience is wearing thin. Your reluctance to give up Kent’s location makes me doubt the nature of your relationship with the man. Just to make it clear, your situation is getting worse by the minute. Every moment you hesitate, is a step closer to your grave. How will your son fare without his father in the long run, I wonder?”  

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a stone-cold fucking bitch, Cross?”

Mac had barely time to blink before the small woman grabbed the front of his shirt, and suddenly, the world seemed to turn upside down before his back made hard contact with the surface of Cross’ desk. Something heavy came to rest on his chest, digging painfully into his solar plexus.

“Hey…,” was all he managed to wheeze out when a small hand reached for the string around his neck and snapped it off him. “Ouch!”

“Crafty, Mr MacCready. Very crafty. It takes a special kind of man to get a concealed weapon passed Knight Jackson.”

His vision refocused just in time to see Cross unsheath the small talon-like blade from its sheath. She was half-kneeling on the desk, her other knee digging into his chest.

Before Mac could decide whether to buck her off or strike her with his fist, she leaned forward and pressed the tip of the blade against his throat.

“What was the plan, Bobby?” she whispered into his ear. Mac tried not to shiver when her breath fanned over his skin.  

“What could you’ve possibly hoped to achieve with this tiny blade and a whole lot of desperation?” She stroked the edge along his neck, just shy of drawing blood.

Mac could feel a bead of sweat running down his temple. His eyes widened in shock when Cross licked it off.

“Wha...what are you doing?” the sniper stammered, the blade scraping against his neck with every syllable.

“Well, my usual methods seem to have little to no effect on you. So I’m changing the plan. Because I’m tired. I’m tired of this place. I’m tired of chasing a ghost. I’m sick and tired of having to wait for others to make a move before I can get what I want! And before you ask, I want to go home, Bobby.” Cross hissed, tongue rimming the shell of Mac’s ear.

He gasped despite the pain radiating from his chest when the touch of her mouth sent signals straight to his cock. This was so wrong, he should say something.

“Are you going to add stud service to my sentence?” If he was going to die, he might as well do it with flying colours.

A surprisingly throaty chuckle echoed in the room. Mac could feel her breasts move against his chest with each laugh. He vaguely thought dying should not feel so fucking hot, but it was hard to concentrate when half his brain was scared to death and the other half busy trying to fight his growing arousal.

The blade moved slowly from side to side over his neck but the pressure vanished from his chest as Cross move to straddle him. Mac winced, hands automatically reaching for his sore chest.

He was trying to glare at her but she chose this moment to move her ass over the growing bulge in his pants, making him go cross-eyed.

“Oh fuck!” It had been a long time since MacCready had availed himself of any form of intimate contact which was the only reason his body reacted so eagerly, or so he told himself.

“Mac,” Cross whispered. He opened his eyes. Her face was just a couple of inches from his own.

“Yeah?”

Her expression went soft. “Your son is safe. He is being cared for by the best doctors the Brotherhood has at their disposal. Whether you live or die, your son will be in good hands, I promise.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mac hissed back. Tears stinging his eyes despite his words. He hated himself because he wanted to believe she was telling the truth.

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because you’d do anything to get what you want, even fuck a man you despise it seems.” Mac’s hands were stroking up and down her thighs—when had he started doing that? He hated her. He shouldn’t want this. Duncan’s life, his life, they were in this woman’s hands. This she-devil with her perfect face, and perfect tits, who could throw a grown man through the air as if he weighed nothing.

She looked at him seriously. “Stay still,” she commanded before she reached out with one hand to pick up a piece of paper from the scattered pile. She handed it to him.

He frowned at it before he blushed. “I...I can’t read.”

Cross took it back and read it to him. It was a report on the progress of Duncan MacCready, detailing that his primary condition had been dealt with but he would need a few months of intense therapy to help him recover from atrophy and fatigue brought on by his prolonged inability to move out of his own accord.

Mac stared up at her in shock. “Why… why didn’t you tell me?”

She put the report back and almost dreamily caressed his cheek with the blade.

“What would you have done in my place? I had to get a mercenary who might very well be in league with my enemy to give up his associate. If I had put all my cards on the table from the start, would you have helped me?”

“Hell yeah, ...for a small fee, of course.”

They looked at each other before they snorted with laughter. It wasn’t fair, she was even more beautiful when she smiled. Before he could second guess himself, Mac reach up and pulled her down into a kiss.

Her tongue thrust into his mouth, impatient and hungry, the opposite of her otherwise so composed exterior. It was fucking hot. Mac moaned into her mouth when she rubbed over the bulge in his pants again.

“Where is Kent?” she asked when they broke the kiss.

Mac’s hands stroked upward until he could cup her breasts with both hands, kneading them slowly in time with the movement of her hips.

“He’s hiding in the old theme park out west. Kicked out the raiders, and made himself at home with his synth loving buddies.”

Cross used the knife to cut the buttons of Mac’s shirt. When she could finally unwrap him like a gift, she cut the blade from top to bottom through his white tank top, purring when she finally reached flesh.

“Shit, how am I gonna explain that to Knight Get-the-fuck-out-of-here?”

Cross chuckled, “What, you mean Jackson? He’s seen worse.”

Mac quirked an eyebrow at her. “You do this often?”

“What, fuck my prisoners on top of my desk? No. But I’m not above using, shall we say, excessive force when necessary.”

“Yeah, no shit!” Mac concurred before he pulled her back down into a kiss.

“Are you going to behave yourself if I put this away now?” Cross asked, holding the knife in front of Mac’s eyes.

He grinned at her. “Fuck no! But, I’m not gonna run away right now if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Cross replied, arm raised she threw the blade expertly between the eyes of a portrait of George Washington. They were kissing again before it had stopped quivering.

They fucked on the desk, papers scattering everywhere. Cross rode him, her tits bouncing until she reached for his hand and showed him how she liked to be touched. Mac’s thumb circling her clit until she tightened around his cock.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come.” He pulled out of her just in time, before splashing her belly and thighs with his cum.

She reached for his hands, pressing them against her breasts as she came down from her own orgasm.

“I need a cigarette!” Mac groaned, still lying on his back while Cross let go of his hands to clean herself off with the remnants of his tank top.

“Well, I can help with that.” She kissed him briefly before she leaned over him, trying to reach her desk drawer, her tits pressing against Mac’s face. He reached for them, teeth gently pulling on a hardened nipple.

“Fuck!” She dropped the lighter and pack on the floor, rubbing her core against his stomach as he continued to suck on her tits.

“You like that?”

“Yes,” she pressed out between gasps.

“What do you want, Selma?”

She laughed, “No-one calls me that.”

“Oh?” Mac asked before he gripped her ass. She squeaked in surprise, her legs wrapping around his waist as he lifted her up as he got to his feet. He turned around and sat her on the edge of the desk before he kissed her again.

“So, what do they call you,” he asked eventually, one hand sliding over belly and down until he pushed two fingers into her wet pussy. “I’d have guessed Ice Queen but that would be so wrong for someone so fucking hot.”

Cross gasped as he fucked her with his fingers. “Salty,” she moaned. “My friends call me Salty.”

“That so?” Mac pulled his fingers out, sticking them into his mouth, tasting her. “Hm, I think I need another sample,” he growled before he bent down and pressed his tongue into her wet heat.

Salty’s hands buried themselves in his hair, pulling and guiding him where she wanted him. He lifted her legs over his shoulders, lifting her higher to lick all the way to her ass.

“Fuck!”

“As you wish,” Mac murmured, pulling away from her before he straightened up and pushed into her again.

He fucked her hard and fast, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing through the room until he felt her come on his cock again. He pulled out and stroked himself once, twice before he spurted onto her belly.

“Oh fuck,” Mac groaned, head tilted back.

When he saw her groping for his shirt, he reached it for her and cleaned her up. She smiled at him, her feet resting on his shoulders, gently pushing against him.

He tossed the soiled rag into a corner before he climbed on top of her again, bracing his weight on his forearms. He dipped his head for another kiss, unhurried this time.

Eventually, she pushed against him, “Move, I’m getting cold.”

“No time for romance?”

She gave him a look.

“Thought so.”

Mac complied albeit reluctantly. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. His son was safe. _Duncan was safe._ And he didn’t know for sure but he wagered his own life was no longer hanging in the balance either. Now, if he could only get paid for his troubles, life would be complete again.

“Looks like I have to go bare-chested. How am I going to explain that to Knight Get-the-fuck-out-of-here?” Mac pointed at the shredded remnants of his plaid shirt.

“You’ll think of something,” Cross muttered around the two cigarettes in her mouth. She lit them both before she walked around her desk and put one between Mac’s unresisting lips.

“So, what now?” Mac asked after they had smoked in companionable silence.

“Now, you can let yourself out. I have work to do and a traitor to catch.”

“But what about me?”

“You want a medal or something?”

Mac shrugged. “Caps would be nice.” When her expression didn’t change, he changed his statement to, “Or, I could get your word, you won’t kill me and I can go see Duncan?”

Cross licked her lips, “So far all I have is your word where Kent is. You’re not going anywhere, Mr MacCready, until I have that traitor’s head on a silver platter, is that understood?”

Mac looked at her for a long moment. “All right. You want me to go with your team?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Mac snorted. “No, but I thought I might offer my services.”

“You realise I could just order you to do it, right?” Cross asked, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“Yeah, I know. So, are you gonna hire me or what?”

Cross face settled back into the cold look he had become so familiar with, however, now he could forever not see it was only a mask like ice on a lake, hiding the rich depth of something alive and beautiful.

“I want you to remain close in case I need more information from you.”

“Is that-”

“Information, Mr MacCready! Tell Knight Jackson I’m authorising you to stay at the barracks until further notice.”

“Oh hey, but no thanks. I’d rather-”

“If you prefer of course, you can lodge in one of our cells again.”

Mac raised his hands. “No, I’m good.”

“Excellent, I’ll sent for you if I need you again.”

“Okay. Just don’t keep me waiting forever,” he said with a wink, and added, “Time is caps, and you’re not paying me so…”

“Don’t get too cocky, Bobby. It won’t end well for you.”

Mac grinned at her. “Yes, ma'am.”

Cross pointed to the door, indicating the audience was well and truly over. Mac contemplated retrieving his knife from Washington’s head but then decided otherwise. He liked the idea Cross would have to think of him and what they had done every time she lifted her pretty head.

Speaking of, “It should be Sugar not Salty, by the way,” Mac said over his shoulder.

Cross looked at him, lips slightly parted.

“Cause you taste fucking sweet, honey.”

She looked away, trying not to smile before she said, “Good day, Mr. MacCready.”

Mac smirked before he walked out. “G’day, Cross. Until next time.”


End file.
